Love Ire and Song.


Sometimes there is a song that so represents how the world is at that very moment, that I wish I could just package it up in bubble and float it over the general populace and get everyone to hear it. But that’s just silly, so instead, I blog about it. And Frank Turner, who I’m currently madly in love with,  has this tune.  And well, while congress is letting the world blowup over politics and so-called principles, me, I’m driving around in my bourgeois, car-seat full, minivan, blasting this Englishman’s rageful, and regretful tune, with the windows down, as if somehow a song could make it all better.  And when I post a song here, I know you don’t always click-through – but today is the day.  In fact- what you should do, is grab the laptop, sit in front of your tv, and tune into your favorite talking heads with views of the Senate emptying for the night with no compromise met, then hit mute.  Then, then, cue this baby up, and turn it up real loud, and shake your fist at the tv, and just feel better about the world.  Because maybe if we all throw up our windows, and let this bubble of a song float out, maybe things will song will make it all better.  Or at least, feel, just, a little better.

 . . . Well it was bad enough the feeling, and the first time it hit
When you realised your parents had let the world all go to shit
And that the values and ideals for which many had fought and died
Had been killed off in the committees and left to die by the wayside
But it was worse when we turned to the kids on the left
And got let down again by some poor excuse for protest
Yeah by idiot fucking hippies in 50 different factions
Who are locked inside some kind of 60’s battle re-enactment
And I hung-up my banner in disgust and I head for the door

Oh but once we were young, and we were crass enough to care
But I guess you live and learn, we won’t make that mistake again, no
Oh but surely just for one day, we could fight and we could win
And if only for a little while, we could insist on the impossible . . .


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